


262 - Insecure re: Starting a Family

by storiesaboutvan



Category: Catfish and the Bottlemen (Band)
Genre: Angst, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-07
Updated: 2018-04-07
Packaged: 2019-04-19 14:46:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14239572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storiesaboutvan/pseuds/storiesaboutvan
Summary: Filling the prompt “Van is ready to start a family with the girl and she’s a bit insecure and unsure about it because of his lifestyle and all. a little bit of angst but with everything working out in the end!”Mini requests of Van being ticklish on the neck and the lids find out and tease him, Facetiming at New Years.





	262 - Insecure re: Starting a Family

**Author's Note:**

> Changed the request just a little bit to fit with an idea I already had.

Fireworks had been going off all day and all night, despite the fact that it was not yet midnight. You sat alone in your flat, sulking about being alone, despite the fact that you had multiple other options.

Van had told you last minute that Catfish had been booked over New Years. He told you after you had already planned on spending the night together. You wondered if he had known for longer, but thinking like that was the right way to fuck up the relationship. You loved him too much for that. And God, he loved you enough that you doubted he’d do anything to jeopardise it.

Friends from work had invited you out, as had your own girl gang, but it felt more satisfying to wallow. You weren’t purposefully trying to make Van feel guilty, but it went unsaid that there was a little bit of satisfaction in that too.

You knew Van would call. He promised he’d get the timing right and everything. After eating a bowl of oven cooked potato tots and your own body weight in chocolate coated honeycomb, you waited up. Your bed was calling you much earlier than Van was, but you resisted.

At 11.51 pm Van’s name flashed up on the screen requesting Facetime.

“Hey Froot Loops,” he greeted, holding his phone at a weird angle that somehow managed to be flattering nonetheless. That fucking jawline.

“Hey,” you replied, voice flat and face void of the enthusiasm his held.

He watched you for a second, frowning when he could see you were unhappy.

“I know it sucks, but we’re getting a good pay outta this one. I can buy you somethin’ real nice. How ‘bout that new record player you’ve been looking at?” When you failed to reply, Van continued. He did that a lot, filling empty spaces in conversation with nervous chatter. “I am sorry, Y/N. I know I said it before, but I really mean it… We can talk 'bout it more when I get home, yeah?”

Yes, it was something you wanted to talk about eventually. Ever since Van gifted you the necklace that had hung from his neck his whole adult life, you had wanted to talk about timing and babies and touring and home life and how it could all possibly work.

“Yeah,” you finally said. “What’s the time there?”

The time between then and midnight was filled with shallow yet comforting conversation. You went out onto the small balcony and turned the camera on the phone around so Van could see the fireworks. When the new year started, you kissed the screen and Van kissed his. Maybe you did sign up for part-time long distance, but fuck, it was still harder than you could have ever imagined.

“I miss you,” you said, back inside and curling up in bed.

“I miss you too, Loops. I’ll call again tomorrow when it’s my New Years. Our set will be done then. I love you, Y/N,”

“I love you, too.”

It was hard to say who was hurt most when the conversation ended and the phone screens went black.

…

“No!” Van yelled, his hands out in front of him and a manic smile on his face. “No!” he repeated.

“Yes!”

“No, Y/N, no!”

“Yes, Y/N, yes!” you said, with an equally manic smile on your face.

You pounced on him and curled all four limbs around his body. Some of the bed’s sheets were twisted around him too; he was well and truly trapped. You kissed a line from his mouth, along his jawline, down his neck. He wriggled around, trying to hold in giggles and screams.

“Just admit it,” you whispered as you continued to kiss his neck, driving him crazy.

“Don’t fuckin’ know what you’re on about,” he replied breathlessly. Van was extremely ticklish. Everywhere. His weakest point was his neck; kisses and touches there brought him to his knees. He refused to admit it though.

Pulling apart from each other, you watched him settle and focus his gaze on you. From the very beginning, from the time you were dirty-kneed, bubblegum-smacking teens, you’d always liked Van best like that. Normal. Human. Calm. Yours. Without a fucking doubt, you were there for the trouble and the music and the craic, but there was something about soft-curled, even-breathed Van that killed you dead.

“Imagine this, but with babies,” you whispered across the clean bed space. Van nodded as he looked down, a small smile playing on his lips before fading into a frown. He shrugged and looked back up. “What was that?” you asked.

“What?”

“That shrug,” you answered, although you strongly suspected he knew what you meant.

Van hesitated before speaking. “Dunno… All in good time, you know?”

“What? No? What do you mean?”

“I just… We really have to focus on the band right now, you know? If we keep this up then we’re gonna be set for life,” Van replied. It was a well-practiced response.

You wanted to fight. The bubbling blood and hurt feelings told you so. You wanted to say, ’We don’t have to focus on the band. You do. I don’t have to do anything.’ You wanted to say, 'Gonna be set for a life we never started because it was never the right time.’ But, you didn’t.

“Yeah. I know." Nodding, you scooted closer to him and let him bundle you up in his arms.

…

"You’re never gonna get this shot,” you whispered.

Van threw you a look over his shoulder.

“Have a little faith in me, Loops.”

To get the ball in the hole, he’d have to putt with the precise force to get it up the hill, but not roll back down the other side; the hole sat on the exact top peak. Surely impossible.

A few people lingered around to watch. They’d seen Van get three hole-in-ones already, and it was only hole five.

You watched him line it up. His hips swayed side to side and there was no way of knowing if a) he was doing it on purpose to make you laugh, b) he was copying Happy Gilmore, or c) it was a weird quirk of his that could be listed with all the rest. 

The club went up, swung down, and the little blue mini golf ball happily rolled down the green, up the hill, and straight into the cup. There was an audible smacking of the ball hitting plastic. Onlookers clapped and the children on the course exclaimed 'no way!’ and 'he’s so cool!’

“Well,” Van started as he strutted to you, swinging his club onto his shoulder. “What was that that you said, huh?”

“Yeah. Yeah. I get it. You’re perfect. You never fuck up. You’re a God amongst men,” you said, pushing him away from you playfully with both hands on his chest. He grabbed one hand and kissed the top.

“Glad you can finally see it. Been waitin’ long enough.”

You grinned at his easy charm and harmless bravado. The onlookers pretended to not give audience to your mini golf course kiss.

“Lucky I didn’t bet,” you said when you had your mouth back to yourself.

“We can still bet,” Van replied hopefully.

“Uh. No. You’re obviously going to win,”

“Yeah, but by how much. That’s the bet,” he said, the 'like, obviously, duh!’ was unsaid but evident in the tone his voice had taken.

“Fuck, you’re a cocky thing, aren’t you? But alright. I’m not as shit as you think, you know, so… like… you’ll only win by…” You thought about what was a reasonable win. Van smirked as he watched you. He was already up by 15. “Um. Fifty,”

“Fifty?!” Van repeated.

“I’m being realistic. Fuck off.”

The game was played. 12 holes. Van won by 53. When you tallied and showed him the card, not verbalising your twofold defeat, he said nothing.

“Here. I’ll return these,” was all he gave you. You watched him return the golf clubs, then meet you at the front door. “Ready?”

“Aren’t you gonna, like, revel in your win?” you asked him as you walked to the car. He just shrugged. “Nothing? Really?”

“Don’t want to make you sad or nothing. Besides. It’s not much of a win against you. No offence, Loops, but you’re not too good at crazy golf. Shootin’ fish in a barrel,” he said as he got into the car and started to flick through radio stations after turning the engine on. He had a point.

“You’re kinda unpredictable,” you said out loud, but it wasn’t really directed at him entirely. It was just a statement said.

“Makes it fun?” he asked. Looking over at him, you watched him simultaneously check his rearview mirror, reverse, pick a station, and put his seatbelt on. You fucking loved him.

“Yeah, I guess,” you replied, humbling your emotions but unable to hold back for long. “It’s boring when you’re not here.”

Van had pulled onto the main road. One hand was on the wheel, the other reached out to bop you on the nose. Before he could pull it away, you grabbed it, holding it against your face. Van ran his thumb across your cheek, brushing against your lips.

“I miss you too. We’ll be okay. I’ll work it out.”

…

He’d been home for a while. Van never stayed in one place for too long. If he had 'time off’ he’d be flying to see friends or to meet up with new producers. He’d be locked in his studio room, which was basically the same as not being home at all. But, he’d been home for a while, and you had gotten used to sleeping next to him. You had grown accustomed to cooking for two or having someone cook for you. The washing was doubled. The cleaning was halved. The loneliness was gone.

“A week left,” Van said seemingly out of nowhere one afternoon.

You were sitting at the kitchen breakfast bar watching him chop vegetables for a pasta sauce. It had been his go-to recipe since forever; his signature dish.

There was no need to ask for context.

“Yeah. I don’t want you to go,” you replied, voice small to save from your words being misunderstood as possessive or aggressive.

“Me either this time. Think I missed you more than I knew, Loops. I was thinkin’ about it, you know? Think maybe you should come with us. With me,”

“Van… We’ve been through this-”

“Yeah, but you’ve always had something going on and there is always a reason you can’t come, but then it don’t even make you happy staying here. I miss you so, so much. It’s like, meant to be easier the more we do it, but the more I go anywhere you’re not, the more I miss you. And you said that you missed me…” Van’s sentence slowed when he started to think about how you felt. He was always less sure of that.

“I did. I do. I don't… It’s not like I’m being stubborn for the sake of it, you know? I have work and I just can’t take time off whenever I want… One of us has to keep things consistent. When… when we start a family, one of us has to be here all the time. Don’t you think?”

Van looked away. Neither of you were wrong and neither of you were right. And therein lied the agony of the situation. The hurt came from thinking about all the unlikely possibilities and all the likely futures.

…

The next night Van couldn’t sleep. You knew he was awake because he was dead still when usually he tossed and turned and curled around pillows and you as he slept. Messy, even when unconscious. His breathing was even and it was unsettling to listen to, to feel. You knew you’d be up as long as he was.

“Van? You okay?” you asked.

He didn’t respond at first and you were worried he would pretend to be asleep. Instead, after a couple of seconds, he turned his bedside lamp on.

“I’m not gonna tell you what to do, Y/N,” he started seriously. You sat up and looked at him with a frown on your face. “Never going to make you go anywhere you don’t want to go. Do anything you don’t want to. Never bossed you about, and I’m not gonna start now,”

“But?” you asked, feeling something in the air.

“But… I think I need you to come with me. I don't…” He paused, his hands going still, then moving suddenly, trying desperately to pronounce the words he couldn’t. “I don’t know how to explain it. It’s more than just missing you. I’m dead serious about us and starting and a family. You know that. I’ve always been like that. You're… I don’t know. Part of me, or something, you know what I mean? So me saying you should come on tour isn’t just about helping you not miss me, but… I don’t wanna miss you. I think our family will be like this. You, me, and our kid. I know it won’t be easy and it can’t be like that all the time, but it’s gonna work. Come with me?”

…

“Told ya you’d love it,” Van said with a smug smile.

“Calm down. You make it sound like I didn’t fuckin’ grow up in those horrible little vans and cars with you lot,” you replied. Even if you knew it was silly, each time someone implied you weren’t part of the band, that you didn’t do as much for them in the early days as someone like Larry, for example, you were hurt. Van did it the most. At some point, you became separate to Catfish in his mind.

“Yeah, but it’s different now, innit? Fancy tour bus. Nice hotels. You see the robes in that one the other night?” he counted with a casual shrug as he poured more tea for you.

Sitting in a café you’d never been to in a city you never dreamed of exploring, you knew he wasn’t exactly wrong. In fact, he was entirely right. You did love being on tour with Van. Even the worst parts - the shared bathroom, the lack of sleep, the smelly boys - were kinda glorious. It was almost enough to make you think putting off a family was the right thing to do. Savour the glory of youth and live like there was no tomorrow. Then, when tomorrow finally comes, think about a kid.

Almost.

“Your number one is here,” Van said then, motioning to the door.

Bondy was grinning in your direction and you bounced out of the café booth to let him pull you into a hug. From the get-go, you’d love Johnny Bond with all your heart. He gave you the weirdness that you needed, that Van couldn’t provide.

“Babes,” he said, then nodded to Van. He slid into the booth opposite his frontman.

For a second you hesitated, but chose to slide in next to Van.

A waiter dressed in the tightest black skirt you’d ever seen appeared to take Bondy’s order. You were admiring her legs before Van kissed your cheek. Turning to face him, he was watching you with a little scowl.

“What?” you whispered, grinning.

“First you greet this one like he’s the love of ya life, and now you’re checking out the café girl!” he whispered back, not as jealous as he was pretending to be. Probably about as desperate as he appeared though.

“Aw, Van. Honey. Love. Babe. Darling. You’re jealous? Really? You’re the one in the rock band. Shouldn’t I be the jealous one?”

He smiled as you kissed the tip of his nose. Then, as he turned back to face Bondy and talk about some shit, you quickly leaned in and kissed his neck, eliciting a little yelp from him.

“What the fuck was that?” Bondy asked, holding back a grin.

“He’s ticklish,”

“No, I’m not. Just… caught me off guard,” Van defended, flustered and pushing away the hands you were trying to hug him with.

“Why are you lying to your friend?”

“Yeah, mate. I can keep ya secret. Ain’t like I’m gonna tell every single person on tour so you can get as much shit as possible. Wouldn’t dream of doin’ a thing like that,” Bondy said while he lined up three individual sugar packets, ready for the arrival of his coffee.

…

The wind was moving fast. And, it was deathly cold. As it whipped across your face, it felt like it could cut. You clumsily wiped your face on your sleeve, removing the tears that were pouring from your eyes in a silent waterfall. The brisk pace you were keeping slowed so you could search your pockets for the hotel key card. When you located it, you started to walk faster again.

Van’s voice became audible behind you. Making a concerted effort to ignore him, you listened to all the other sounds of the city at nine pm. Mostly traffic. Conversations of people passing by, doing their best to pretend to not notice you and your breakdown. Then, Larry’s voice. “Mate! What the fuck are ya doing?! Kick in the 'ead is playing! You’ve got to go!” Catfish would go on late, if they went on at all.

A hand was on your arm then, stopping you. Van stood in front, his face fixed in an expression of utter terror.

“Please. Please don’t,” he whispered, his voice coming out choked and pained. He was on the verge of tears.

“Don’t fucking what, Van? You fucking said! You fucking promised!”

“I know! I know I did and I’m so fuckin’ sorry, Y/N. I didn’t- It’s not-” but he stuttered, hesitated.

“It’s not what? Your fault?! It’s your band. It’s your dream. Your everything. You say jump and everyone else says how fucking high. Don’t try to blame this on someone else. You’ve made this fucking choice!”

You were yelling and it was drawing attention. Van hadn’t noticed; his attention was entirely locked on you. Larry was lingering back, making awkward eye contact with the passer-bys and trying to give reassuring smiles.

“I don't… I don’t know what to do. Okay? What am I meant to fucking do?” Van asked. He wasn’t yelling. He was breaking. The tears stung his eyes and skin; his biology was so unused to crying that it seemed so wrong. 

“What are you meant to do?! Are you fucking serious?! You’re meant to pick me. You’re meant to keep your promises to me. That’s fucking what you’re meant to do! How fucking hard is that?!”

Convincing you to go on tour took time. You’d never regretted it though. It was fun and getting to just be with Van put you at ease. It was like you got to know him again. It felt like home. Even with that, you were counting down the days to the final show. You were looking forward to your own bed, your own washing machine, and being home with Van, instead of on the road with Van. Importantly, before you had left, Van said the timing all worked out. He said when you got home, you could try for baby number one. He said it would be okay.

Three shows to go in two cities, the time was close. You were in one of two unisex cubicles in the backstage toilets, lost on social media and taking way too long to exit. Voices approached outside the door, then they came in. Van and someone with a voice you couldn’t recognise. They were talking about how the tour was going, about the correlation between shows and digital downloads, about the business side of things. You sat frozen, listening to them planning out an extension of the current tour. Another few weeks, maybe a month. Probably a month. “And who knows from there!” the voice said as he pissed in the cubicle next to yours.

They left.

You burst into tears, ran from the room, and almost took Joe out as you flung open the fire escape door. He’d snitched and Van followed.

“I… Fuck!” Van yelled, holding his head like it was hurting. “It will work out,” he said, voice calming. He took a step towards you and you took one back in response. “Y/N, it will work out,” he repeated.

He was a fucking idiot and you wanted him to suffer like you were. Plain and simple.

“No, Van, it won’t,” you replied. Your voice had dropped to a hard whisper. It was cold and void of any emotion other than badly contained rage. “Not for us. So how about you just go play rock star, yeah? That’s all you’ve ever wanted really. You go play your show. Get your groupies. Fuck a couple of them. Woo them with your little 'oh, I’m gonna be a good daddy!’ schtick you do so, so fucking well. Tell them all about your best mate Larry, so you look like a better person than you are, and do a couple lines of coke and get absolutely fucked up.”

Van’s face crumbled and he started to cry. It was satisfying and something deep inside you broke from seeing him like that. From knowing you did it. From knowing you liked it. 

“Loops…”

“No. Don’t fucking Froot Loops me. Fuck you. I’m going home. I’ll have my stuff out when you get back. Have a good life, Van.”

He didn’t chase you after that. You didn’t look back to see his knees buckle, to see him really sob for the first time in his entire life, to see him being dragged back to the venue by Larry.

The night’s show was cancelled. Bondy went on stage under the full bright lights and apologised. He told the crowd there had been an emergency, that it was bad. He, Benji and Bob went out the front and met as many people as they could, dodging questions about Van. The internet was alight with rumours. People were sure they had seen someone that looked like Van down the road from the venue, fighting with a girl that looked like “a total bitch.”

…

“You did tell him to…” Iris dared to say. You shot her a look. It was a stupid thing for her to say, but it was a stupid thing for you to tell Van to do.

Rumour had it that he spent two nights completely, toxically drunk, fucking girls in the wake of your abject removal from his life. The windy street had only been four days prior to Iris coming over to help you pack your things into boxes.

It was hard to sort your own possessions from Van’s. You’d been together since you were sixteen. Anything that was his, was yours, and vice versa. Even if something was solely yours, it would still remind you of him. Who the fuck were you without him?

“This is nice. Yours or his?” she asked, holding up an ugly gravy boat. It belonged to his parents but you ate more gravy and Yorkshire puddings then them, so they just left it at yours after a dinner one night. Van loved it because it was from his childhood. You loved it because it was kitsch and heavy with sentimentality.

“Ah… his. Leave it,” you replied.

A car stopped outside and two doors slammed shut. Van was still overseas, as far as you knew, so you didn’t move. The rental van wasn’t parked across anyone’s driveways either. And if anyone did need you to move it, the front door was wide open; they could just come in and holla.

“I remember this! Remember when we used to do margarita nights?”

You were searching through where the mugs were, looking for your favourite one. Looking up, you smiled as you saw the big jug in Iris’ hands. Margarita nights were good. Van was a good drinker, a proper Irishman, but tequila… not so much.

“Y/N?”

If anyone had asked, you were just startled. That was all. Just got done a real big spook. The teacup in your hand slipped through your fingers and hit the floor in one piece, then shattering into dozens. All four people in the room just stopped and looked. Slowly, you looked back up at Van in the doorway. Larry was behind him, and he looked more tired than Van did, which was saying a lot.

“Um… I’ll get the dustpan. Nobody move,” Iris said, breaking the tension.

As directed, as they would have naturally done, nobody moved.

Iris returned, sweeping the china shards into the dustpan, then leaving it on the kitchen countertop. She looked at you, but you couldn’t look back. Van was in the room.

“Okay… Um… I might pop out for a smoke. Laz, mate, join me?” she said, brushing by Van and offering him a reassuring pat on the shoulder. She was firmly on his side. She said you were being dramatic. You wanted to hate her for it.

Iris linked her arm in Larry’s and they left, leaving you alone with Van.

“What are you doing? Why are you doing this?” Van whispered.

Your nose started to tingle, then quickly started to run. Sniffing, you glanced around for the tissues. You took one step forward, then yelped in pain. Before you could stop yourself, you were whining, then crying.

“Did she fuckin’ step on teacup?!” Iris yelled from the front porch.

“Yeah. I got it!” Van yelled back. He was already picking you up and putting you on the counter. He was completely unfazed by your mediocre and listless attempts to push him away from you. “Lemme look,” he mumbled, holding your leg out at a weird angle and inspecting the bottom of your foot. His eyebrows pulled together in confusion, then he looked down at the ground. “Does it feel like it’s still in there?” he asked.

You wriggled your toes and foot, wincing. “Yeah,”

“Hold on then. Gonna get the tweezers and stuff. Must be in there pretty good.”

Van walked from the kitchen and as he loudly rummaged around in the bathroom for the first aid equipment he was searching for, you bent your leg to bring your foot closer. You couldn’t see anything either, but it was in there somewhere. A splinter of pretty china, causing enough pain to make you cry. Or maybe that was just the shock of Van rocking up, calm and evidently ready for something.

Van returned and gently held your foot still by the ankle. He wiped the sole clean of dirt and blood then took three minutes to find the teacup shard. Not a word was spoken while he worked. Before he put the band-aid on, he handed the box of tissues to you. Van didn’t move from standing in front of you as you blew your nose. He even pulled your legs down so he could stand behind your thighs.

The colour of his skin had always been a tell-tale sign of how he was living. The red-rimmed eyes. Purple sleep deprivation. White malnourished. Even his black pupils were dilated with fear and excitement.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Did you sleep with other girls?” you asked back. The tone of your voice was neither confrontational or accusatory, and you were glad you managed that.

Van licked his lips, then nodded. “Yeah,”

“Tell me,”

“Why do-”

“Van. Just… please.”

He complied. The first night, the night of the windy street, he escaped the watchful eyes of Larry. Disappeared into the unfamiliar city and found a girl that looked a lot like you. She was kind when he couldn’t get it up. She guessed there was a you, somewhere in the world. He cried all night but was gone before she woke. Van wasn’t sure if that one counted and neither were you.

The next night he did it again. He still hadn’t been back to the hotel. Spent the day drifting around the city with a dead phone and broken heart. At a bar, he spotted a girl with a band shirt. The Strokes. Starting the conversation was easy and her friend recognised him. “Holy fuck. You’re Van McCann,” she said. He couldn’t remember exactly what happened, but he woke up around three am and walked back to the hotel, even though he was on the outskirts of the city. There were photos and videos on his phone of the night. That scared him because it probably meant they had some too.

The third night he was on a plane home.

“We’d only ever slept with each other,” you said to Van when he finished, like he wasn’t aware of that. Like he didn’t know how horrible it was to have that special, pure thing ruined.

“Yeah… Should’ve stayed that way. But… everything else… we’re only gonna do together. Only gonna have babies with each other. Marry each other. Live with each other,”

“But how? 'Cause it’s not working,” you whispered, sad more than angry.

“I know. I know it hasn’t. It used to though, yeah? When we was younger. 'Cause you used to just straight up tell me what to do. When I could go and when I needed to be home. All that. Helped me do everything right,” Van said. There was an immortal hopefulness in him, for sure.

“I was a bossy teenager. I can’t just… boss you around now,”

“But what if I need you to?”

Van snaked his arms around your waist, pulling you across the counter to be closer to him. You wrapped your arms around his neck and let your weight press against his chest. He hugged you tight and while your lungs and ribs were being crushed, you felt a sickeningly satisfying pain. Van deserved revenge for what you’d said to him, what you’d done, and he deserved your love. A painful hug seemed like a way of meeting those needs, even if he was unaware that he was doing it.

"I just want you here, Van. I want to see you more. I want to go do the shopping together and brush our teeth together and sit around together, you know? Normal stuff. Whenever you’re home it’s always so fucking intense. No time to just sit 'cause you’ve got to see everyone and make use of the time, or whatever. I just want you home. I want a baby. I want a proper life. But…”

“But nothing, Y/N. That’s what you want. That’s what I’ll make happen. I promise,” Van said, kissing the top of your head a couple of times.

“But it’s not going to be good like that because you want to be out touring and I’m not gonna be the girl holding you-”

“Stop. Just- Fuck- Stop,” Van interrupted. He let you out of the hug so he could tilt your face up to look at him. “I have loved you since the moment I fucking saw you. I’m not me without you, you know? You’ve never held me back… Probably couldn’t even if ya tried. You’re the smart one, Froot Loops. I get all caught up in everything and it’s good and stuff but I need you to keep me level-headed. Gotta remind me 'bout the real world. That’s not holding me back. That’s keeping me good. I need you. I need you to be like that. Okay? 'Cause it is gonna be okay and good. Like we always planned… Just gotta look after each other a little better, that’s all,” he finished, hugging you again.

“Look after each other better,” you echoed, nodding into his chest, holding onto him for dear fucking life.

…

It took a couple of days to unpack the boxes you and Iris filled. It wasn’t that there were many of them, it was that neither you or Van had the energy to complete the task at hand. The emotional exhaustion ran deep. It was to the bone and as taxing as any physical feat achieved before. Eventually, you crawled out from the safe covers of bed and started to return everything to its home.

Van joined in, making jokes about the things you did and did not claim as your own.

“So you take the good toastie machine but leave that stupid smoothie maker I would never use!”

“The toastie machine is mine. I bought it when we were nineteen,”

“Loops, I know for a fuckin’ fact that you stole that toastie machine off that rich girl Bondy had a thing with,” Van replied, laughing again.

“Oh. Really? I have a legit memory of buying it?”

Van shook his head, continuing to unpack kitchenware.

Things didn’t return to normal straight away. In fact, they never really returned to how they were before you told Van to go fuck himself and also go fuck other girls. They couldn’t return to normal after he did just that. But, things settled. 

Van was home more; Catfish didn’t suffer for it. You were happier. Then, you were pregnant. Van was still ticklish and still pretending not to be. Larry was still chilling in the background, making sure everyone was doing what they should.

By the time New Years came again, your tummy was a little bump and Van was in the kitchen putting the potato tots on.

“Loops?! Want some of this honeycomb?” he yelled.

From the small balcony, you yelled back, “Yeah! Bring the whole bag!”


End file.
